Charlywalker's Blog











{November 5, 2013}   Blogger’N Hell…

One of my favorite authors wrote a book in the 70’s entitled; “The Grass is Always Greener Over the Septic Tank”.  I was barely out of high school when I became a big fan of Erma Bombeck.  I found her to be one of the most clever humorists on this globe and was particularly enchanted that she was nearing fifty when her books began to orbit the planet.   Impressive.   She built her career with articles which lead to best sellers based on her suburban home life, possibly some whilst in the midst of menopause.  Most impressive.

I loved her her work and often wondered how she  might have come up with the novel idea of the a fore mentioned  title.  I asked myself if maybe she was just sitting outside taking a quiet moment from the chaos of motherhood to watch the grass grow;  or perhaps  chasing after the crazy dog that ran out of the house with a Bra clenched between his canines and tripped over the cesspool cover causing a fall face down onto a greener pasture……….like I encountered.

However  the case, I commend her creative thought.   Imagine that book’s title had Erma lived on the Public sewer system.

My blog titles may not make sense to anyone but me. My format is to think of the heading first, then eventually fill in the puzzle with pieces of nonsense, quasi truths , and an added touch of experience and observation. For example: Blogger’N Hell.  I think of the expression “Hotter’N Hell”,  and obviously replacing a word in the phrase with the term Blog, either in past, present, or future tense.  My idea for this technique is not ingenious for I was new to the blogging world and had no idea at the time ,what in the hell I was doing.  The titles I came up with stem from a  catch phrase, or maybe a song, or some slogan I overheard while shopping for eggs. Then I laugh to myself as I enter the letters onto my keyboard to layout the Post Heading. I am smiling because I have no inkling what the body of the blog will contain.  I am a massive free-floater.

The title “Blogger’N Hell” made me think of Heat. Not Satan’s fiery Hell, but the earth’s climate in general.  Summer has past and the Fall’s atmospheric conditions showed signs of  sun and wind, ergo, I decided to dress warmly today. I grabbed last seasons leggings and covered them with a sweater dress , slipped on some wilted suede boots and a leather jacket to  head outside and walk the dog.  I barely got down to the end of the lane when I felt the sweat forming at the temples of my tinted hairline. I should have watched the morning news as the weather-person predicted temperatures in the 70’s.

Lately I have been having difficulty with the fluctuation of temperatures and I don’t mean of the external kind. Menopause and I are having a temporary battle of the bulge and sweats which do not coincide with the rest of the environment. My intrinsic Meteorologist has its own agenda. This attack of my internal global warming is causing a meltdown of decision making every time I enter my closet to dress for the day.  I spin my wardrobe wheel of fortune to help with the days pick of attire as I listen to the hormones whispering their “Yays” or “Nays”.  While my tempered hands glide across fabrics, I sense the Goldilocks  syndrome chiming in: “This Cashmere  sweater is too hot!”…..”This cotton shirt is too cold!”…..”This ugly-ass pair of sweat pants is juuussst right!”.  So I put on the cotton shirt, pull the cashmere sweater over my head, and jump into the ugly -ass sweats as I give the rest of my closet the finger.

Temperatures rising and falling biologically can explain certain side effects  a woman  in her fifties might encounter that cause her thought process to detour or stray.  For instance, someone in the drones of menopause may start the day off at her computer wanting to write about Global Warming in relation to the Earth, but end up in stead, twisting her genre to center around her hot-flashes.

When I  keyed in the Title, Blogger’N Hell I was going to rant about the cause or causes of Global Warming………………..from my viewpoint.

Ok, here goes:

Personally I think the polar ice caps are melting due to the fact  that has been overlooked for a long time. In 2010 the population of the States was 308.7 million  and I read a stat that showed  a rough estimate that 49% are male and 51% are female.  Of the 51% of females around 26% are women between the ages of 45 and 64. Now ,if I may estimate or Guess-timate to divide the country in half  lengthwise and roughly focus solely on the female population in the 45-64 age group that dwell below the 37th parallel, I might inject a reasonable fact that maybe…just maybe a very high percentage of these women could possibly be experiencing symptoms or are in full blown menopause.  AND keep in mind the geographical area of where they live; Southern California, Arizona, Texas, and Florida to name just a few parts of the United States that harbor temperatures in triple digits that can process humidity which will frizz the near bald head of a new born.

Now here’s my theory as to why all this is melting away.

If you are experiencing menopause under normal temperatures even in the dead of a winter blizzard you will find yourself dressed in your home in nothing but your underwear. The rest of your family will be appropriately attired and dialing their cellphones to reach a psychiatric unit to commit you.  So…Imagine the percentage of  women  aged 45-64 that reside in the unbearable heated climates below the 37th parallel  going through menopause and looking for a place to cool off and fan their internal heat fueled by a hormonal imbalance. Imagine. Where to go to retreat the heat.

THEY ALL MOVE RESIDENCE TO THE POLAR REGION.  All 26.4%  migrate to places like; The Yukon Territory, Siberia,Antarctica, or The Icebox of the Nation; Fraser, Colorado.   Imagine, all those menopausal women  that have been basking in sunshine and heat for the majority of their lives taking refuge in sub zero temperatures to seek relief, soaking their over heated bodies into the cool temps offered up by Jack Frost. This could react in a massive menopausal melting pot.  Why the internal heat alone from this 26.4%  would radiate into the Alps causing an avalanche of epic proportion.  This internal heat filters out of the menopausal body into the frozen environment as women scream out their cries of joy: “Ice Ice Baby”.  This, my blogger friends, is the cause of global warming.

I’m sure Erma would agree. Maybe she’d  a had another best seller with titles that include:

” The Ice Melts Faster if You Sit On It.” or ” Menopause..Into the White, the Other Side of Fifty Shades of Grey” or ” My Hormones Caused an Avalanche Over Alaska”, or “High Anxiety”, or “Incontinence…The Eighth Continent”.

Erma would have a hay day..she’d be dancing around to Nelly Lyrics….

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{July 2, 2013}   A Bunch of Blog Wash

Laundry is a lonely world in my house. It sits and compiles like a garbage dump site.   The only thing missing from this mountainous scene are the seagulls hovering about looking for a morsel.  That would explain the missing socks.  No one wants to acknowledge the hamper overflowing like a volcano looming over the Bay of Naples.  No one wants to flock to the Whirlpool that awaits its daily meal of detergent and fabric softener…………. except me.

Oh, my family members know how to run the washer and dryer, and they know how to find the necessary materials to help the machines do their dooty.  They just turn a blind eye to the domestic scene. The collegiate sector of this household have been away and forced to launder their garments.  They know.  They know how it ALL works. They know how to do laundry when their hands are TIDE(d).    To them, this agonizing chore is nothing to CHEER about. They would sooner I WISK this tedious deed out of their idle Summer Break hands and move the SUN & EARTH for the cause, but there would be nothing to GAIN with that METHOD.

My kids need  a FRESH START and BOUNCE  back from this  SNUGGLE(y)ERA of  mom will FINISH the XTRA load. If you catch my DREFT.

OK, let me clean up this  abrasive jargon and scour the real reason I’m venting through a clogged filter…..

HOW can people living in your house not SEE the assortment of attire strewn about their rooms as if it’s been washed ashore by a Designer Tsunami. How…

I own Machinery that talks to you.  My General Electric’s are equipped with bells and whistles that continually chime until someone gets off their keister to turn the dryer off.  It is an intermittent “beep” that starts out long and loud then silences itself for a few nano seconds only to take a breather to start up again with a two minute warning that the “LOAD IS NOW FINISHED, COME GET ME OUT!”.

I am thinking of contacting the Heads of General Electric and share my ingenious idea of my version of a talking washer and dryer. A new twist on Smart Appliances.

It would be programmed for different members  of my household who happen to be lurking in the hallways with headsets on listening to their Electronic du Jour.  I would ask that GE make it a wireless unit that is capable of  breaking into their leisurely head banging music.   Kind of  like an Airline Captain who interrupts your inflight movie to  describe the Colorado Mountains.   You know that inopportune time……when the twist comes into the flick or that  long awaited punch line…..the Deus ex Machina.  Or MACHINE(a) .   There you are, engulfed at the end of the Departed when Matt Damon gets shot and groceries drop to the ground while the camera pans to a bootie covered foot, and your eyes are glued to the screen, and just as you are about to see the culprit the Captain breaks in with his weather update.

THAT’S what I want my GE laundry machines to do.  I want the Washer  and Dryer to penetrate my sons Ipod in the middle of his hit Itune with sporadic statements reminding him to take the wet load out of the washer and put it in the dryer.  It would be my voice invading his wireless “hood”:

“Good afternoon son, hope you are enjoying your day, we have reached an altitude of five feet of laundry blocking the entrance to your room and it looks like there could be a delay in obtaining clean clothing for that special date tonight. So sit back, relax, and ENJOY your smelly clothes…..”.

  And if my son ignores the command he will be met with periodic follow-ups of reminders.  Every two minutes.

The Washer will start out speaking in ultra soft tones, maybe add a personal touch and call him by name, then if he is still oblivious to a directive, the Dryer will then kick in with harsher attributes:

Dryer: ” Son, I don’t think you want to ignore the washer. Remember what happened last time, you forgot about  your Ipod in your jeans pocket and left the wet laundry in there for two days to ferment….oohhh..your Mama was mad…”.

This will become cyclic and programmed into all his electronics. There will be no escaping the demands to get the laundry completed in a timely manner.  I will instruct General Electric and Whirlpool to use my voice as the prompt.

In fact, I have decided to install wireless Mother Voice commands throughout the house.  They will be implanted throughout. I will have the alerts activate upon entrance. They will be individually formatted for each member of the household who have been pooh-poohing the Matriarch of this family…..:

1) “Kindly remove your muddy soccer cleats at the door”

2)”Your wallet and keys are on the counter where you leave them every night”

3) ” NO, I did not take your lip gloss, it is buried under your make-up pile spilling onto your dresser”

4) “Could ONE of you please take the dog out for a walk?” ( I would program that one into the couch facing the TV).

5) ” If you are standing and staring into an open refrigerator with one arm hanging on the door looking for something to eat that isn’t there…….close the damn door!”

Yes, I think this could work.  I think I will work on General Electric to do this for me.  Then I will approach Apple next to send numerous Texts of Motherly Instructions that get overlooked.

What…..you don’t think they will take me SIRIously?

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The day the Earth stood still was two weeks ago when my son’s Smart phone decided on it’s own to dummy down and quit.

I learned this had happened through his sister who Stumbled upon his Facebook message to a friend commenting that: “His Phone Died”.

I am grateful that my sons lines of communication are open to his thousands of Facebook friends and refuses to add his mother as a bosom buddy.  He does not want  (me) to be privy to his status while away at college.  He thinks his mother will spend her days stalking, (or creeping as they say), on his infamous site, where the Full Monty of Freshman life is displayed and revered.  Like I have time for that. OK, I sneak a peak every so  often when Facebook isn’t looking.  I have eyes in the back of my FACEbook.

It’s amazing how this generation ( xyz?) seem to run amok when an electronic is on the fritz. It’s as if one of their brain waves collide  with an HD air-wave and severed the wireless connection that adheres the Smart phone to their palm, resulting in their  opposable  texting thumbs to short circuit.  Ive seen those thumbs work that virtual keyboard like greased lightening,  while sucking down Kentucky fried wings. Those thumbs slip- slidin’ on the screen not missing a beat of LOL or TTYL or POS. ( Parent Over Shoulder).

My son programmed his smartie phone  messages to modulate the night- watchman in a  Navy ship yard.  It sounds off with two bells every time a text is received.  In the olden days of sailing , watches were timed by a thirty minute hour glass and bells would be struck every time the glass was turned.  My son watches the glass of his phone every second, all day and all  night, no matter which way its facing.

I hear his phone clanging in a Bell  pattern of pairs :

Morning Watch: ding-ding

Forenoon Watch: ding-ding-ding

Afternoon Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding

Night Watch: ding-ding-ding-ding-ding

WEE -Hours- While- Family Members- Sleep-Watch:  DING – DAMNITY- DING. 

I  lie and wonder  for whom the Bells Toll every second as my sons phone shouts out a “new message received”.  What news is so urgent to be shared every minute of the day and night amongst his mates.  And now, here he sits with his dead phone, and I wonder ; what could possibly be going on in his head now that his entire fleet of friends are unable to reach him and text their one syllable messages. 

I have witnessed he and his crew hanging out and barely speaking in full sentences to each other. I  have watched as this collegiate Armada sit around in silence dancing their opposable thumbs across their phones as a multitude of ships bells chimed in unison…sounding alarms….signaling functional and ceremonial uses of considerable significance as to whether one  of them scored a date for the night.

I think about when I was his age and the readiness of communication while out and about, was finding a working payphone.  In my day, there wasn’t a lot of emphasis on  repetitive contact with one another.  If you had something to say, or relative info to convey, you dialed a number,got to the point, and made your arrangements.

There was no need to go back and forth with responses, you knew what to do and when and where to do it. There was no need to hold twenty people on the line to confirm what dress you were wearing to the dance. There was no need to speak every minute to someone via the phone as we were all speaking in PERSON when we got together.  If everyone related all their conversations ahead of time we would have nothing to talk about when we congregated.  Well, well, well..maybe that explains why my son and his friends are silent when they assemble. They are TEXTED-OUT, OVER-MESSAGED, PINGED TO THEIR LAST WORD.

I  will say my son’s faulty phone may have prevented future last minute changes in his life, but all in all he handled being cell-less quite well.  I half expected him to come off his Buzz with certain side affects, maybe a possible cellular detox causing a network disruption and  a communication breakdown of his opposable thumbs, therefore rendering him speechless.

There was a day or two of minor moping and staring at his thumbs trying to figure out their future should texting become obsolete while his phone is incommunicado.  It didn’t take long for him to wander over and pick up the controls to his ill forgotten Xbox collecting dust and play a childhood game or two.  I’m sure its to keep his opossable thumbs conditioned until his phones replacement battery arrives……

…….in 5 to 7 business days…..

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“It’s raining…..It’s pouring…..my husband won’t stop snoring……He went to bed…turned his head…and I kicked him out this morning”….

I know snoring is no laughing matter, especially to the other person occupying the the right side of the bed who can’t sleep, due to the massive logs being sawed next to her…more like a buzz saw emanating from those nostrils.  How does this rhythmic rhino sleep through his own band of breaths.  How does he manage to open the floodgates of  an airway to bring in ‘da Funk, bring in ‘da Nose….relentlessly causing him to  not Breath Right.  This is nothing to sneeze at.

The only semi cure to calm his turbulent turbinates is to roll him on his side so his schnoz is facing East.  If he is resistant to that change in venue and chooses to remain on his back pausing to inhale; he will face the pillow of doom hovering over his face as he’s Waiting to Exhale.

  I tried that once. It was a mere threat…..in jesture .  My  recidivist  snore hog (snog)  awoke to the Scent of a Woman who uses too much fru-fru fabric softener in the laundry, so he hurled a ginormous sneeze onto the pillow case:

“Were you holding a pillow over my face?”…..he asks Eyes Wide Shut incrusted with sleep particles.

“No, darling,  you were dreaming.”….she coos, replacing the deformed microfoam  to the head of the bed…for Her Eyes Only.

“You were holding a pillow over my head thinking to smother me with down feathers,”…he smirks with laughing Eyes.

“Don’t be Batt(y) sweet heart,  that material contains too much airspace, if I truly wanted to off you I’d use the fiber- filled decorative  throw pillows;  everyone knows Polyester doesn’t breath”.

“So..you were trying to kill me in my sleep.” ….He spills out trying to suppress laughter.

“Not exactly honey -pie,  it was more like adding a muffler to your mouth piece.  You’re snoring”.

“I don’t snore.”..he deniably stated  looking through the eyes behind his head.

(Oh..that’s right, how could you possibly hear yourself snore over the the clamor emitting from your palate as you lie there in your sleep number coma, oblivious to the affect is has on your neighboring bed mate.  She beamed through her Betty Davis Eyes….).

That was the last time I tried the Muffle effect.

My next approach was during a visit out  west staying with relatives and  I tried the Extended- Arm -Prop- to -the -back technique. This enables your snog to remain on his side for the night, quieting the rumbling gasps;  however, it will leave you Sleepless in Seattle with an Achy Breaky Arm in the morning.  One night I chose to use the retractable-limb method: Once your snore victim (snortims) is on his side, your arm repeatedly jumps out into action with the slightest inkling of him turning onto his back.  Sometimes this method calls for two arms to be utilized as you are dealing with  unconscious weight.  Weight that has been tipping the scales of  late night snacking.  There are repercussions when using this tactic, especially if you work out at the gym three to four days a week, as my husband once fell victim to the floor:

“You pushed me out of bed?”,   he blew out after the THUD landing.

“No darling, you were dreaming”,...she winces, eyes squinting in guilt.

“You could have killed me”,   he puffs out.

“No sweetums, the chili peppers you loaded onto your late night burrito will kill you, thus the THUD when you hit the carpet, I was merely administering a minor love tap to your back helping the jalapeno’s adjust”,  she quips as her eyes search for a Eurythmic’s lyric….

“Would I Lie to you honey?…..ok..ok….you were snoring.”

“I don’t snore”,  he freely denies …again…

This lead me to my third and final modus operandi: Which is a full proof  formula so easy a dog could master it. This ritual  not only works but will provide your slumbering snog the  body of evidence that which he is being accused of: Disturbing the Peace(ful) sleeping wife:

I video taped him.

I filmed him in all his snore glory.

I showed him my presentation after I jiggled him awake.  Just try and deny the snoring now my little sweet apnea…

“You filmed me sleeping?”, he says as as his Eyes roll to the Heavens.

“Yes, pumpkin, now there is no confusion as to your snoring or not. Here you are, In Living Color, lying on your back, breathing and expiring the snuffle shuffle through your nose to the tune of She Drives Me Crazy”. 

“So what do you have to say now Mr. I Don’t Snore?”.( Her EYES have it!).

“THAT’S NOT ME”,….rolls over….fade to black..

(EYE GIVE UP!)




I have been trying  for months to sit down and tackle my keyboard to try and coerce some nonsense out of my brain. I believe my mind has been on hiatus longer than a new hit series featured on HBO. It was as if the harder I tried to think of something to write about ,the more  the thoughts escaped and tunneled out faster than Andy Dufresne through the sewers of Shawshank. It just stinks when that happens. 

It’s like I’m held prisoner in my own head and I am facing a cell block that refuses to sing a Schwann song.  In order to get the synapses in sync, I  usually will take long walks with my dog or tackle the Elliptical at the gym. I stress the word usually. 

Lately I have found it harder and harder to get out there during the winter months, which seem to drag on longer than Holiday visits from my Mother-in Law.  The motivation to dress in layers, jump into a cold car, drive in sleet , just to arrive and  get out of a now warmed car into the cold, and enter a gym that smells like…like…… a gym;  then strip off the soaked layers and step up onto a piece of equipment that was formally occupied by a wet Wookie………..has left the building.  

As far as the long walks with my dog are concerned?  He avoids nasty weather and will withhold  potty-time longer than a camel craving an oasis.

A lot of my inspiration would attack  me at random times. Times when I didn’t have anything handy to jot the idea down. This frequently  happens while driving to the store and circling the parking lot for a space, at the same time, averting run- a -way grocery carts searching for a head on.

One time was in a bank as I stood eleventh in line during rush hour.  I found myself digging through my  bottomless pit of a purse for a pen.

A PEN I always carry in the zipper portion of a pocketbook which inevitably gets devoured by the hand bag monster lying in the abyss below the hole in fabric lining.

A PEN that sits there in clutch camo teasing the grasp of my pre -arthritic fingers ,sticking it’s partially opened tip out leaving it’s mark on my manicure to let me know it’s” there “and “unattainable at the moment”.

A PEN that refuses to surrender by the time I reach the front of the line to make my deposit; In addition, the bank employee reprimands me to sign the check and offers me a pen.  There I stand with a Pen and Teller and “No Vacancy” written all over my brain…

And as fate will have it, my thought for the day had vanished ,only to possibly resurface during another inopportune moment.  Much like that PEN of inequity did  when it decided to show itself as I returned to my car outside the bank.   Never  walk and blindly fish for keys in an open receptacle whilst trying to recapture your initial brainstorm, it leads to  a dropped hand bag adjacent to the car door causing an accessories crisis spill onto the the black top and watching a PEN that is mightier than my satchel, to roll under the car.

I got down on all fours to locate its final destination.  I tried to retrieve that slippery shut in, but  it was out of my reach and I risked bumping heads with a header pipe……and that would exhaust me…….

Gathering ideas to stimulate a blog thought is not an easy task and can prove to be hazardous depending on your surroundings at the time.  I’ve had many  afflatus attack me in the middle of a shampoo while showering.  Maybe scrubbing the scalp stimulates that a fore mentioned “cell ” block and whips a body out of the bath, dripping without a towel, sliding towards a pen spotted on the countertop……only to land on the cold tile floor in the process.

Which brought my brain to a conclusion that all ideas brought on during that scenario are………….

(wait for it)……..

SLIPPERY WHEN WET.

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{November 30, 2012}   Twinkie Defense

I am sorry to hear that Hostess will no longer be offering their Twinkies to the public, mind you, I don’t buy or eat Twinkies.  I had one once in the 60’s.  A grade school chum offered me the second Twinkie in her double pack after school one day.  I remember the Twinkie  being larger than my hand and I can still remember the taste and texture of that Twinkie today.  I remember the soft spongy yellow cake oozing the cream filling with every bite.  I don’t think I had ever tasted anything like it, as my mother didn’t let us eat sugary pre- processed food.  Maybe a home made chocolate cake for a siblings birthday,  or an under baked  tart from my easy bake oven, but never a Hostess Twinkie, Fruit Pie, Ding Dong, or Ho-Ho.  I guess I can thank my mom for my impeccably clear arteries to this day…

Twinkies came on board around 1933 and now they will become extinct and for some reason that saddens me. I’m sorry Hostess had to declare bankruptcy, couldn’t they just repay their creditors with  an abundance of sweet snack cakes?  Twinkie’s  developed quite the resume besides clogging coronaries  and sending children into sugar coma’s.  The Twinkie found itself costarring in movies, like Grease, Die Hard, and Ghostbusters and also wound up in the courtroom at the 1979 murder Trial of Harvey Milk, where Dan white claimed he overdosed on Twinkie’s an was acting under a delusional influence of a  sugar high.  Hmm..maybe he needed a glass of Milk.

I think Twinkie’s were a part of our society whether we indulged in their cream fillings or not.  I am guilty of offering a Twinkie to my children when they were young, around the same age when I had my first Twinkie.  My son came home from school and wanted to try a Twinkie.  I of course objected and then after a lengthy conversation with  a six year old who ended all my statements with “Why?”; I decided to give in.

I went to the store and found the hostess aisle and searched for a twin packet of Twinkie’s.  There were none.  Apparently after thirty years Twinkie’s now came in a box of twelve.  My son was with me and was grinning from ear to ear with that bit of news. I managed to spot a double pack twinkie stand toward the checkout and grabbed one.  The first thing that hit me was the size. It was no longer bigger than my hand. In fact, it barely covered my palm.  The second thing that hit me was the price.

My son and I returned to the car with the Twinkie’s in hand.  I had as much anticipation as he did when opening the twin pack.  I gave him his half and watched as he bit into the yellow cake and licked the cream filling out of the center. I’m assuming that was Twinkie protocol.  I held my Twinkie for a few moments before taking the first bite.  I examined the cake and it appeared to be a little more on the orange side than I remembered.  I chose to break my Twinkie in half to witness the airy fluffiness of the spongecake and cream filling spilling out onto your fingers, but when I flexed the cake  it just seem to sag and bend. I wrestled with it’s rubbery texture until the cake pulled apart like my unbaked cakes cooked by a  60 watt bulb from my Easy Bake Oven built in the 60’s.

After successfully separating the Twinkie, I had to put my glasses on to find the cream filling. I guess this was the first indicator that Hostess was having difficulties; Cutbacks of the cream filling, followed by more red dye and gluing agents.  I took a deep breath before I took the first bite of what seems to be a deflated expectation.   There was something different about this Twinkie from what I remembered. It lacked something and I couldn’t put my tongue on it.  It was missing the the basic ingredient from the 60’s that gave Twinkie it’s popularity. It lacked TASTE.

I spat that wad of chemicals out into a napkin and turned to grab the remains of my sons Twinkie, but was met with him licking the sticky crumbs off his fingers, and a giant smile over his face.  He thanked me profusely for his snack cake and wanted another one.  I drove back home explaining to my son that “This was not the Twinkie I grew up with”. I expounded on the differences of our Twinkie generation gap, and how I would not be a part of a defamed Twinkie..an imposter you might say, a Twinkie lacking in character and taste and cream filling!

It grieves me to think that my son’s first Twinkie tasted like an over priced spongecake left on the shelf too long fermenting in it’s yellow dye. And to skimp on the filling was the icing on the cake…

When I heard that the Hostess Twinkie was no longer to be around I had an epiphany to go and buy one and stick it in my freezer. My son is in college now, and I don’t think he has had a Twinkie since our first encounter when he was in grade school.  He  was home over the holiday break and I mentioned to him that I was going to purchase a pack of Twinkie’s and I was going to stick them in the freezer, and come the day that  I should no longer be on this Earth I would like him to carry this Twinkie into the future and pass it on to future generations that may own a freezer.  I asked my son this one thing to do and he responded with a “No”.

I asked him “why?”; it was such a simple request to carry the Twinkie into the future. To keep the Twinkie alive in the deep freeze. He could be the owner of the last Twinkie standing.

He said ” he would just eat it”.

Not if they are selling for $5000 on Ebay…….

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{August 27, 2012}   Eat My Blog!

Ok…bare with me….I’m going to go on a tirade that will get your juices flowing.

Recently I stopped into a Walgreen’s in search of a Slip-n-slide to entertain the twin boys  next door.  Now that my children are  off to college and surpass the height, weight, and age requirement posted on the front of this Wham-O box, I thought I might spread the joy onto another generation.

Although it’s the end of summer and the aisle’s in Walgreen’s are embellished with Halloween decor,  I just thought I might get lucky in the leftover  “Summer water-fun” section and happen upon a lonely re-taped box containing a Surf Rider for the lawn.  I ended up going to three different stores before I  finally stumbled upon my Product of Gold.  And I do mean stumbled Up On.

After countless minutes of wandering aimlessly through misdirected passageways offered up by the one purple haired  texting employee,  I turned toward the area that her rolling eye’s pointed to and tripped over a yellow and blue box waving it’s slip-n-slide tongue  at me.  I noticed the empty shelves of  all the Summer days drifting away and me standing alone at the end cap of aisle seven investigating the last Slip-in Slide exploding out of it’s cardboard casket.  It appears that I was not the only one in search of Summer Fun that afternoon as I witnessed a glob of amber synthetic petrochemical out pouching from it’s home.  It look like another patron did a little breaking and entering causing  an escapee of  fire retardants to seep through the strapping tape.

I slipped the collapsed slide from it’s pocket to inspect it for flaws; as I would hate to get the three year old twins jacked up for a round of belly-flopping and later find a tear and cause their Summer dreams ripped into seams…..Well-a well-a-well a- huh…

Ok.. I’ll tell you more… tell you more…

This isn’t about the slip-n-slide it’s about the box Angry bird fruit gummy’s I purchased as an after thought while exiting the store.  Angry bird gummy’s that eventually found themselves returned to the store because the Green Bird contained something dark and sinnister in it’s gummy belly. This was noted when a child was about to pop it in her mouth at the poolside. It was a good thing that this kid likes to investigate her food as if she were a cast member of CSI, before she passed it through her gums.  Her keen sense of , ” Hey, what happened to this angry bird gummy”, brought my attention to the small black spot burrowed in the belly of this Angry Green Bird.

I snatched that gummy from her hand and inspected the foreign body lying inside the gummy bird. It looked like a small part of a bug.  This gummy had a bug up its ass…...now I see why they are called Angry Birds.

I went back to the store to return the box of Angry Bird  Fruit Gummy’s made in Mexico.  I did not go to the original store where I bought them, I went to a store closer to my home which is located in a different state.  I live south of the border in my state and have the opportunity to shop tax free  in another state on a daily basis.

I managed to track down a manager to present my Angry Bird Gummy case and produced the body of one disgruntled Green Gummy. I told her I read the ingredients on the side of the box and how it neglected to mention  any added protein to the mix.

 The manager was amenable as I handed her the receipt and I explained that I bought this item in a tax free state.  She counterclaimed that in my State most food is not taxed.  I was dumbfounded, as I thought all food was tax free. I asked about the gummy’s status in that genre of taxation. She expounded on the difference of percentages of Fruit in the food:

“If the gummy’s contain a high percentage of fruit they are considered Food”.

I asked her where is the cap line for the gummy birds and might this Gaggle of gummy’s not make the tax free cut.  Maybe the Red Angry bird has more fruit matter and carries the weight for the rest of the Angry flock. I asked if there is a flow chart that determines which gummy’s make it as food and which get (T)axed…and what about all the other products that contain Fruit. Like Orange Juice or Juicy Fruit Gum……W(r)igle(y) your way out of that one…..

I walked out of that store thinking about which elected official spending my tax dollars, actually sat down and thought this out to present to the government when the Food Tax  Addendum was in session.  I could just envision this appointed delegate entering the Senate with his/her box of Angry Bird Gummy’s to argue the amount of fruit contained in this Green Angry Bird.   I wonder if this dignitary presented the facts based on the history of the Angry Bird’s which shows that this Green Angry Bird can spin around and smash objects from the other side and is similar to and nicknamed; The Boomerang.

No wonder it came back to the store.

spread the humor.



{July 28, 2012}   Blog of the Debate Floor

Last night I watched the opening ceremony for the Olympic’s held in London.

Last night I sat in front of the big screen with grave anticipation of a show stopper to knock my socks off, if  I were wearing any.

Last night I gathered my children and duct tape them to the couch to witness an event that captures the world’s hearts every four years, instead of  them indulging in an episode of Xbox or Sims.

Last night before the viewing of the Grand Dame of the Motherland, I filled my children in on Beijing’s production that had my heart pounding out of my chest along with their lightening drums.

Last night I heard the name Danny Boyle over and over again in commendation for the London festivities.

Last night  I poured myself a class of bubbly and directed the rolling eyes  and sighs of my teens towards the “telly”  to witness something they will never see again until another four years.

Last night I listened to Matt Lauer and Meredith Viera assert Plug-ins where the show flat- lined.

Last night I joined my children in the eyerolling and sighs as I watched the works of this Danny Boyle. Who is Danny Boyle?  Is he related to Susan Boyle?  Is he a remnant of Britain’s Got Talent?

 

Oh Danny Boy….your pipes your pipes aren’t calling…..

 

Last night I apologized to my children for having them sit through this barrage of ….of……balderdash, bollocks, bombast, buncombe, hogwash, horse-feathers, hot air, tommy rot, tripe, & twaddle…….

If it wasn’t for Mr. Bean & the current James Bond, I may have exploded like the lights of Beijing. Some things just torch me the wrong way..

Right Then….I’ll just jog on….Cheerio.

I could manage to watch Beckham add some spice and bend it for hours…oohhh pish-Posh.

Spread the humor(?)




Rule number two was written in bold type with massive underlining and Italics. 

CURFEW. 

I thought I left this behind after graduating high school. It made me wonder if all the “New Stews” parents held a meeting with the airline presenting their list of wrongs.  I left my family back west purposely to break the confines of parental controls.

CURFEW… try telling that to my empty stomach at 10:00 p.m.  My tummy had jet lag and was still adjusting to the three hour time difference as East met West in my digestive organ.

Miss Midwest and I missed our dinner bell and the Airline Gestapo  sent us  straight to our room without dinner. Just like in Junior High ,when your mother got mad just because you were sent home from St. Luke’s Catholic school for setting the goldfish free in the holy water during set-up time for the Church Bazaar.  Anyway, as Midwest and I sat in our double occupancy suite rifling through drawers for signs of pre-packaged sustenance, I noticed a pair of eyes peeking through the gape of our drapes covering our partially opened window.

I whispered to Midwest that someone was outside our room.  She walked over and flapped the curtain open and standing like a deer in headlights was the Bell hop from the Villa’s.  We stood there glaring at him as he squeezed his face partially through the window and spoke in broken English:

“Are chjew gurlz  mucho hungree?”.

It was Jorge ( pronounced: HORE-HAY).  The Cuban bellboy that befriended a few Stews at the villa’s.  He was our only connection to the outside when forced into solitary confinement.  Jorge knew everyone and everything about the Villa’s.  Jorge was able to get you Anyone and Anything at Anytime from the Villa’s.

We pleaded our gastronomic case and asked if he could fetch us some food. He stated he could but we would have to accompany him.  Miss Midwest gave me the same look she gave as when I pulled her into the Bentley earlier that day.  We had made the time constraint of the late night bed check, but we still needed to cover ourselves should the airline gestapo happen to sleep walk.  We stuffed our beds with pillows and blankets to form an “S” shape resembling two laid out Stews. After shutting the light, we proceeded to crawl out the window with the assistance of Jorge who had a golf cart waiting behind a palm tree.

Jorge ushered us into the cart and drove us to the Villa’s Restaurant, which is excluded to New Stews and open to visiting vacationers.  The one thing about an Airline School in the 70’s,  is most of the students are pegged the moment they arrive, and are easily identified by staff and visitor’s.  I was still in my Miami white attire and Jorge was dressed in his Villa’s employee uniform.  I asked Jorge to loan me his tie and red jacket and walked through the Staff entrance to the restaurant kitchen.  It was there I picked up a serving tray and started to slam salami and crudites onto a pile, followed by a stash of French  baguette.  The kitchen staff rambled something in Cuban pointing and laughing as I paraded my silver tray through the aisles of leftovers.  I turned and popped them a smile and a Gracia’s and raced back to the golf cart where my cohorts in crime anxiously awaited.

Miss Midwest et all laughed up a storm as they saw me exit with a tray of delights wearing the Bellboy’s jacket and a black bow-tie.  Jorge let me drive back to our room  and as I parlayed the Cart in reverse  and darted with full  throttle in the dark, I neglected to look behind me and rammed another cart that approached from the rear.

Two well dressed “Suits” stepped out of their golf cart and stood hovering above us ready to land their disgust with this minor accident incident.  Both gentlemen cross examined Miss Midwest and I regarding our status at “this hour of the night”, and “are we employed by the Airline?”.  I  conceded  and offered up our feeble excuse while slowly removing my rented costume and returning it to Jorge.

The one Suit who was missing his tie stepped closer into the light and leaned into our golf cart and spat out:

“Do you know who I am?  I am the V.P. of the Airline that just hired you”.

I was hoping at that time I was not going to crap my Miami white polyester pants.

Mr. Veep scolded us and threatened to have us returned to our homes.  It was then I realized I should have listened to my dad and applied to law school. He always said I could argue my way out of  going the wrong way on a one way street.

 I pleaded with the “Pinstripes” and begged forgiveness from the courting of the idea of; maybe, just maybe, a sentencing of no breakfast in the morning?  I ended with my closing statement describing the heartbreak and disappointment our parents will endure as a result of us being thrown out of “Stew School”.  I sniffled a sentence or two referencing my “stature as a temporary college misfit and winning the Flight Attendant lottery with your Esteemed Airline, and how this is a child’s dream come true to one day turn in my Miami White polyester for the Noble Blue Uniform of the Wings of Man”.  Then I eeked out the airlines rusty slogan in the key of “E” flat with hopes of my cohort butting in as a back up singer:

“You gotta Belieeeve in Eastern……”

The V.P. nearly peed his pants to suppress his laughter. He took our names and numbers and ordered us back to our rooms. He instructed Jorge to drive us back safely.  Miss Midwest and I crawled back through our window and fell onto our beds hardly sleeping, and thinking about our demise facing us in the morning.

It was 8:00 a.m. and the morning Gestapo shift entered our room to announce that “Miss Midwest and I were Grounded for a week”,  thus being responsible for the breaking of  rule’s #3 and #4………

Never miss class and Never miss your Familiarization flight……

It was then I started to study the tactic’s of Gandhi and missing a meal once in a while to prevent any uprisings.    Plus, how was I to know that having Hotel Staff loitering outside your window after 11:00p.m. was breaking rule #5……..

(to be continued……)




Now that my kids are soon to be vacating the house on a semi permanent basis I need to fill a void that has been lying dormant for years. Something that I have been aVOIDing to do based on my life as a wife, mother, dog walker, housekeeper, nurse, chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, laundress, accountant, gardener, psychiatrist, travel agent, consultant, sports authority, and sibling rivalry referee………

I am ready to Tap-out now and try my attempt at re-entering the workforce.  It has been years since I’ve held full time work and I am not afraid to go out into this world and show them exactly what I’ve got:

 

I’ve got a wardrobe from the 1990’s.

 

I’ve got the ability to apply my half -used free samples of Lancome products that I acquired over the years during  a Macy*s back to school sale.  Yes, I got a little side tracked at the Mall while hunting for back-packs and lunch boxes. 

In fact, I’ve got pulled aside by many mall make up artist’s who try to perform their magic on me.  I can’t imagine why they keep picking me out of the crowd of soccer moms.  I arrive dressed in appropriate attire when the doors open in the morning.  I see nothing wrong with waking up and sliding down my fire pole to slip into my uniform sweats that have been standing at attention all night, accompanied by dirty Vans and a Hoodie.  I carry an odiferous  aroma about my being ranging between Downey fabric softener and last night’s Pizza.

  I’ve got my hair in an erect ponytail and  I shield my puffy bags with over sized Raybans.  I can’t imagine why the make-up crews single me out……..

 

I’ve got the ability to clean up while driving and apply make-up at stop intervals. The drivers behind me hate it though, they keep honking at me just because I’m waiting for the Stop sign to turn green.  I thought it would buy me more time with the Mascara…. I find it takes two applications now.  One; to find the lashes, and two; to glue together the few that I have left…..forming a uni-lash.


The downfall about putting make-up on in a car are the bumps in the roads. They are always working on our streets and neglecting to refill the potholes, so when I finally reach my final destination ( usually the school drop off line) and park my car and get out, I notice people staring and kids pointing in my direction.

After transmitting my morning without coffee sneer to ward off evil onlookers, I take a quick pause into the ladies room to wash the morning gas of my hands from filling the empty tank left by my husband.  I looked up at the mirror as I rinsed the suds off  my paws and saw what the villagers were scoffing at:  My freshly applied make-up face resembled a combination of  Picaso’s Weeping Woman and Baby Jane Hudson’s as she delivered a Parakeet to her sister…….

 

I’ve got a pair of pumps that my feet haven’t felt in ages.  One cannot describe the agonizing pinch of  the toes that have been granted freedom in flip flops with arches that collapsed from the great depression of Ked’s insoles.  I took the time one late afternoon to strap on some heels and practice walking in them around the house  with no one around to witness the teetering and the giant fight against balance, except Charly-dog, who steered clear of my runway  in fear of a crash landing.

I spent the better half of the day shuffling about in my designer heels  that peeped out from my Yoga pants.  I practiced my walk until I felt I had it down to a science and stopped echoing a staggering drunk on some forgotten street.  I felt confident and assured that I had tackled the High Heel dilemma and ventured to take my stiletto’s to another dimension:  The Stair case.

Climbing up the steps was met with ease….. it was the descent that had me  clinging to the banister like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, avoiding a result mimicking Scarlett O’Hara’s demise  after her lunge toward a drunken Butler…….

 

I’ve got a resume.    Somewhere.   It hasn’t been updated since the Clinton administration.   Just a minor indescretion oversight.

 

I’ve got credentials.  I’m accredited with incredibility. References available upon request.  Go ahead…..request.  Request until the cows come home.  Habeas corpus; I can produce the body……..it’s just a little rusty and needs a make over….which the Lancome staff has a signed commitment to uphold……

If you don’t like my credibility try my crudites. They are incredible, and edible, but not available upon request.

 

I’ve got the corporate beige panty hose that are tied up in knots from the last load in the wash cycle.

 

I’ve got a brief case from 1987 that needs airing.

I’ve got a boat load of humor stuck in me that is trying to float to the surface………………..

spread the humor.



et cetera
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